I Work for the Joker
by The Lovelorn Angel
Summary: I don't have a college degree or a high school diploma. I wasn't born from money and I don't really have any skills. I'm not pretty enough to be a model and I ain't ugly enough for the circus, but my standards are low enough to work for a clown. (Rated M for lots of harsh language and, well, horrific Joker stuff. No romance, mostly comedy.)
1. Chapter One

"Can you drive?" asks the gruff, older man with a five o'clock shadow and big arms blanketed by a bigger, dark flannel jacket.

"_More like nine o'clock shadow."_

"Uh, not really," I reply, squinting at the rising, early morning sun over his shoulder, and the banks of ultra white, reflective snow on the ground around us.

We're standing outside some abandoned warehouse on the distant outskirts of Gotham. We're in the parking lot, and all I can see from here are miles and miles of patchy land – half dead grass and half snow – and then a blinding sunrise comprised of white, canary yellow, and apricot orange colors. It's late November, so the air is chilly and everything exposed to it for too long freezes, like my nose and my cheeks feel like they're about to.

"Ah, that'll do," he says with a wave of his arm, dismissing all care for credentials and grabbing my forearm to lead me over to the white van sitting behind the warehouse.

"Your job is ta run errands," he says, stopping to stand next to the van and rest his hand on the comparably small hood, "so be available, don't be stupid, and don't stop anywhere."

Then, he remembers another thing, "Oh, and don't fuck up."

"_Ouch! Not my strongest point."_

"You got it," I assure him, and then ask, "but how am I going to run errands if I can't stop anywhere?"

He looks at me, unamused. "That's another thing – don't be a smart-ass."

"'d rather be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass, right?" I kid, smiling a little bit and cocking an eyebrow.

He still doesn't look a bit piqued. "Depends – do you wanna be a dead one?"

"Hm," I muse aloud, "good point."

"Right," he points a finger at me, using his other hand to take a silver Motorola Razr phone out of his pocket.

"_Whoa, flashback to 2006."_

"Now, here's your phone," he says, handing it to me, "again, be available. You're no use if we can't get a hold a ya, so pick up your fuckin' phone."

"You got it."

"Good," he says.

He opens up the passenger door and gestures to the driver side for me to get in too, by snapping his fingers and whistling impatiently.

I do a little jog around the front of the van and hop into my seat. I throw a glance at the floor where the brakes are and instantly feel relieved. There are only two pedals, it's not a stick shift. And thank God because I barely understand how to drive an automatic.

"You got a license?" He asks, after we've shut our doors.

"I got an old permit," I offer.

He does that arm wave again, "Just shoot the guy if you get pulled over."

I place my hands on the wheel and nod curtly, "Will do."

"_Maybe."_

"A'ight, now start this bitch up and get outta here. We got somewhere to be," he says, cranking up the heater and switching on the radio.

"Where to?" I ask over the sound of "Shake It Up" by The Cars.

He gives me an address. I think I might know where it is. I don't say I have any doubt, though. I just turn the key, check with my eyes where everything is (the lever that lets me signal and all that other fun stuff is behind the wheel), and use the stick between us to put the van in reverse. Soon enough, we're driving away from the warehouse.

"_Just remember – brake, left. Gas, right."_

"Sooo...what're we goin' there for?" I ask.

"Shut your mouth."

I drive in silence, and remember to put on my seat belt before he barks at me and slaps my hand away.


	2. Chapter Two

We make it to the address he's provided me with. It's a small, one-story house in downtown Gotham. There's a trike on the front lawn and toys scattered across the porch. I'm guessing it's the digs of a single mother.

"Hmmm," I hum, trying my rusty hand at parking along the curb in front of the house, "I didn't know you had a baby momma."

My boss (or a man I presume to be one of my bosses) turns to me and growls, "What did I say about bein' a smart-mouth?"

"Well, actually you said don't be a smart-ass..." I start, and then trail off once I recognize that all too familiar I'm-gonna-beat-the-shit-out-of-you look, "but you know, apples and oranges. I feel you."

"Good," he grunts, and steps out of the passenger side of the van, "now wait here and use common sense," he says, leaving me to my own devices.

I switch the radio station once he leaves. I settle on "Do the Evolution" by Pearl Jam. I lean against the steering wheel with my crossed forearms and stare at the front lawn, obviously lacking care and upkeep. I observe the white, chipped paint on the house and the windows that have never been washed and the rows of bare bushes. I imagine the woman inside is raising a dirty, sticky four-year-old child.

Minutes pass and my boss still hasn't come back yet. I wonder if this really is the house of a single mother, and if my boss really is the father of a dirty, sticky four-year-old. I picture what his "baby momma" must look like. I bet she's blonde, or brown-haired and Puerto Rican. I don't know why I think she's Puerto Rican. My boss is white. Although, he does have a thick mustache akin to the sort you see on Mexicans.

"_Oh my God," _I think to myself, _"you fucking racist. Puerto Rico and Mexico are two different things. Mexico is...a country. I think. I'm pretty sure. And Puerto Rico...fuck, what's Puerto Rico? Is it an island? Is it near Mexico? Shit, shit, shit. Goddamn it."_

Suddenly, I see my boss bolting out the entryway and past the flimsy screen door of the house with his hand around a man's neck. My boss is pushing a gun into the man's back and has a burlap sack over the man's head.

"_Scarecrow is such a trendsetter."_

I quickly prepare myself to start the car and drive off in a hurry. Boss throws the sliding van door open and pushes the handcuffed (with zip ties) man into the back.

I scramble to turn the key, press my foot against the brake, and take us out of park and into drive. Once boss jumps into the front seat beside me, I try to drive out of there as fast as I can without hitting any of the cars in front of me.

Driving down the street, I come to a stop sign. I slowly bring the van to rest.

"What are you doing?! Go!" My boss yells, standing up out of his seat to point the gun at the man in the back.

"What do you want me to do?! Draw attention?! We're driving a big white van and we've got a hostage in the back! Do you _want_ to top it off with traffic tickets?!" I yell back, speeding past the stop sign, barreling through the city, praying to God or Allah or Buddha or Whoever to not let any little kids come running out into the street.

"Just get back to the warehouse, and fast! Don't worry about pigs, worry about your job!" He shouts, and that's the end of that.

I squeeze my hands on the steering wheel and steal glances in the rear view mirror of the man in the back. He's wearing a long-sleeved brown shirt and dark jeans, that's all I can tell.

I still can't remember where Puerto Rico is.

* * *

Author's Note: Mexico is a country. Puerto Rico is an island and U.S. territory. It's kind of close to Mexico. It's to the right of Mexico and above Venezuela (which is above Brazil).


	3. Chapter Three

Somehow, with Boss nitpicking my every move ("you're in the wrong lane!" blah, blah, blah...), we make it to the warehouse.

As soon as the van stops, Boss starts shouting at the man in the back, "Get up! Get up!"

I watch Boss jump out of the van and throw aside the sliding door to grab the man from out of the back. Boss yanks The Man out while I get out of the van myself and walk around the front, assuming I'm supposed to stay and help out.

Boss shoves The Man to the ground where he begins groveling on his knees and whimpering. Boss pulls the burlap sack off his head and tosses it to me.

I barely catch the sack between my fingertips, almost losing it to the gusting wind.

The Man begs Boss, "Please, please don't do this..." he pants, probably terrified, "I-I have a baby girl, Emily, she's five-years-old, she's just started kin-"

The Man cuts short at Boss' unsympathetic look and turns into a sniveling mess.

"Show some compassion for God's sake! I'm all she has, you have to understand! Don't you have a family?" The Man cries. I can see his face now, and he looks about twenty-two, or something like that. He has a goatee and curly, dark brown hair.

Boss, unfazed, looks up from The Man to me and gives me an address, and says, "Drop off the load in the back of the van there. Two Ukrainian guys will be there waiting for you, they'll help you. Just call me when you get there."

"Okay, what's your number?" I ask, aware that the chances of me remembering an address _and_ a phone number are slim.

"It's in the phone already," He says simply, nodding his head toward the van, gesturing for me to beat it.

"'Kay," I say, and walk back to the van.

"Roger, please, you know me," I can hear The Man say to Boss, "you know I'm a good person. I know you're a good person. Tell him you killed me. Let me leave town with my daughter."

"He doesn't want you dead, I'm s'pposed to bring you back alive," is all Boss says.

I get to the van and pull on the door handle.

"_Shit!...it's locked...and I left the keys inside...well...at least I don't have to ask for directions now, 'cause I don't know where the fuck that address he gave me is. The docks maybe?"_

Suddenly, I hear something – something like the sound of feet shuffling, running away, or trying to at least. I move to see what's happened.

The Man is running away from Boss, hands still zip-tied behind his back. Boss points his gun, aims, and **bang!**

Hit. The Man stumbles back down to his knees, not too far away from where he just was.

"I turn my back for one minute!" I yell to Boss who just throws me an unappreciative, impatient look.

I run back to Boss as he calmly walls over to The Man. Boss looks at me, irritated.

"Why the fuck are you still here?" He asks.

I fumble my words. I haven't exactly started this job off on the right foot. I'm not sure how Boss would react if I told him I locked the keys in the van. I'm too young to die, and I'd definitely go to Hell.

"Nevermind," He says, "I need you here anyway."

Boss hoists The Man up, hardly a single inch off the ground, by grabbing him from underneath his armpit, and proceeds to drag The Man across the cement to the opening of the warehouse. I follow, relieved I don't have to explain locking the keys in the van yet.

"Open 'er up," Boss grunts, nodding toward the big red doors of the warehouse.

I push the doors open and as soon as I do, Boss quickly drags The Man through the doors. "Shut 'em," Boss says to me over his shoulder.

I follow Boss and The Man through the entrance of the warehouse, and then spin around and shut the doors, before turning back around to get a good look at the inside of this place.

I see crates, fuck loads of 'em. And other vans too. I catch a few glimpses of open crates with what look like assault rifles leaning against them.

"'Ay, come over here!" Boss barks at me.

I quickly come over to where Boss is kneeling next to The Man. Boss is taking off The Man's shirt to assess the damage. Or that's my hypothesis. If he's not taking off his shirt to assess the damage, then I guess I underestimated the amorality of Joker's henchmen.

Thankfully, my hypothesis is right. "He's bleeding pretty bad," Boss says, eying the gushing hole in The Man's side.

"_No shit, Sherlock."_

"Take him to a hospital," I suggest.

Boss looks up at me, with a chastising look on his face. "Oh, and what are we gonna tell 'em? 'Hey, we kidnapped this guy and shot him when he tried to run. Could you patch him up for us, please? So we can torture a healthy man _not_ on the brink of death?'"

"_Just tryin' to help, geez."_

"Sorry," I mumble, rolling my eyes a little.

Boss sighs and runs his fingers over the head of his thinning, dark blonde hair. "We're gonna have to fix him here...damn it!" he yells, slamming his fist against the concrete floor.

I stand there, watching, awkwardly uncomfortable with yet another, much more taxing responsibility.

While I'm standing there like an idiot, Boss rises from his spot on the floor to run back to the warehouse doors.

"_Hey, where's he going?- Shit! Shit! He's probably going to the van!"_

"Try to stop the bleeding, use his shirt!" Boss hollers before he leaves the warehouse.

I sigh and kneel down next to The Man. I grab his shirt, place one hand on his hip (on the side opposite of the bullet wound), and use my other hand to tend to the wound using the shirt. He moans and whispers agonized words I assume are prayers.

I hear the sound of shattering glass outside.

"_I'm so fucked."_

Minutes later, Boss runs back in with a first aid kit in his hand.

"_What kind of goon has a fucking first aid kit?"_

He drops to the floor next to me and first takes out the roll of gauze. "Wrap that shit around 'im, then take the ACE bandages and wrap those around 'im too -"

"Have you ever done this before?" I ask, hesitant.

"Me? No. I got an idea of what I'm s'pposed to do, though, so just do as I say. But before you do anything, you have to get the bullet out," he says, and hands me a pair of tweezers.

I move my hand to take another look at the gaping wound in The Man's side. I gag and press the shirt back against the wound. "Fuck that," I cough, "I ain't -"

Boss grabs a fistful of my hair and gives a sharp tug on the back of my skull, and practically spits in my ear, "You're in enough trouble as it is, so just get the fuckin' bullet out, you lazy bitch, or you die too."

"Ow!" I yelp, letting go of the shirt to touch the sharp pain he'd inflicted on the back of my head, "You're the one who shot him!"

Ignoring me, Boss stands up and jerks his phone from his coat pocket. "Don't make me tell you twice, get to it," he says, turning away and putting the cell phone to his ear.

"Hmph," I grumble to myself, glaring at the pool of blood forming on the floor. Angrily, I gather the shirt and press it back against The Man's side. He moans something.

"What?" I whisper, trying to pay attention, but also scanning the floor for the tweezers.

Gasping for breath, he says, "If I..d..die...pl..please tell my wife...my, my ex w...wife...I love her...a...and Emily...t-too."

"Um," I start, finally finding the tweezers, "I don't really know your ex wife and, uh, I'm not good with kids. She'll probably be sad if her...well, if her dad's dead and all."

The Man lets out a strangled cry as I begin digging for the bullet with the tweezers. "Please!" He cries, "At least try to!"

"Ah, all right, I guess," I make a halfhearted promise, almost 80% sure it will never be fulfilled.

"Thank you," He chokes, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth at the surely excruciating touch of the small metal tongs.

I retrieve the bloodied bullet, and sling it across the room, disgusted by both the smell and the sight. Boss doesn't yell at me. He's too busy talking on the phone.

"No, no! He's not dyin' or nothin', he's just a little...worse for wear. Stitch 'im up and he'll be ready to go!... Nah, nah, I didn't mean 'stitch', just, ah, bandage, I mean..."

I look down at The Man dying at my knees and start moving a little faster. I grab the roll of gauze and start wrapping it around his waist, unsure if I'm applying the gauze properly and almost certain I'm not.

"Soon? How soon?... No, no... I'm sorry, I didn't mean – Yeah, I've got it. Don't worry...I know, yeah..."

I assume I've applied enough gauze and tear off the remaining bit from the rest of the roll. Then, I grab the ACE self-adhering bandages and wrap one around his waist, over the wound. I feel like a very inadequate nurse.

Boss gets off the phone, looking conspicuously sweaty, and asks, "'Ay, so how we doin' here?"

I turn to him and tell him I have good news and bad news.

"What's the bad news?" He asks.

"He's out cold," I say, glancing down at his sickly face.

"All right, what's the good news?"

"We can rebuild him. We have the technology."


End file.
